


Third Rail

by tinkertoysdamn



Category: Ex Machina
Genre: Drug Use, Drunkenness, M/M, Marijuana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinkertoysdamn/pseuds/tinkertoysdamn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bradbury thinks way too much about his boss’ sex life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Rail

It had been like making out with a third rail. That’s what the crazy bitch had said as she was dragged out of city hall by two of New York’s Finest. Trouble had said a lot of other things too, but those were the words that rolled around and around in Rick Bradbury’s head. 

She had kissed Hizzoner. Some stupid thrill junkie broad had shoved her tongue into Mitch’s mouth and taken a taste of what Bradbury had been craving for years. His only consolation was that Mitch had given her bloody teeth and a busted lip for her trouble, pardon the pun.

Bradbury let the anger coil and simmer in his gut, even the sight of Trouble being shoved none too gently into the back of a squad car didn’t make him feel better. He had been dicking around Coney Island questioning that old Commie bastard when he should have been guarding the Mayor. It was Bradbury’s job to make sure Mitch was safe and it was a job that he kept failing.

If he couldn’t protect Mitch from some former tour guide dressed like a hooker what was he going to do if some nutjob like Pherson showed up again? A shiver ran down Bradbury’s spine. No, Pherson was a one-time deal; it couldn’t happen again, it just wasn’t possible. The world couldn’t handle another murderous freak like him. 

Bradbury would rather deal with ten Troubles than have one more confrontation with Pherson. Even if the leather-clad wannabe had managed to plant one on Mitch’s soft mouth, at least she hadn’t tried to kill him. 

Bradbury licked his lower lip. Like making out with a third rail; what the fuck did that even mean? Had she felt that small thrum of energy that always seemed to animate Mitch’s body even when he was still? Had she touched the scars, barely covered by makeup that marred the left side of Mitch’s face? Had she felt that they were a degree or two warmer than the rest of his body? 

Would the inside of his mouth be just as warm, the inside of his body? Would Mitch tremble and groan like a human being as Bradbury pushed his way in or would the former Great Machine click and whir? Jesus, just how far down did that alien circuitry run?

These thoughts plagued Bradbury as he emptied a six-pack into his gullet; they dogged his steps as he made his wobbly way to Gracie mansion and they frayed his nerves as he stumbled to the door. It took him a few tries; his large fingers fumbling with drink, but he punched in his access code and made his way inside.

The house was quiet and still, moonlight streaming in through the windows. It was late, much too late for any normal person to be wandering around, let alone a drunken Head of Security. 

It was a good thing that Mitch wasn’t a normal person.

Bradbury could just make out a figure sitting in the dark when a voice called out, “LIGHTS ON.” Bradbury winced at the faint buzzing in his head, eyes drawn to the green glow that briefly illuminated Mitch’s face. The lights came on as they were ordered to, revealing Hizzoner sprawled out on a wingback chair, feet propped up on an expensive coffee table and tie askew. His right wrist was in a cast; apparently Mitch’s punch hadn’t improved since his days as the Great Machine. 

The crazy green of his eyes were rimmed red, the air sickly sweet with an odor with which Bradbury was all too familiar considering his years as a cop. Mitch just stared at Bradbury, the blunt clenched in his fingers. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Bradbury grinned, feeling big, stupid and too brave. “I heard you got to First Base with the loony.”

Mitch groaned and rubbed his eyes. “Did you seriously come here at—“ Mitch paused, his eyes and scars glowing green for a second. “2:15 in the morning to bust my balls?”

“You don’t want people kissing your ass every second of the day, do you?” Bradbury asked. He wobbled his way into a vacant chair, ass sinking down into too much softness. He peered at Mitch, face almost split with the force of his spread lips and teeth.

Mitch’s eyes narrowed. “You’re drunk,” he accused. 

“And you’re high.” Not exactly the best retort but it was all that Bradbury was capable of at the moment. 

“They wouldn’t shut up,” Mitch said. Bradbury had known the man too long to not know which “they” he was talking about. Mitch took another toke; his exhale slow and deliberate. He raised an eyebrow as if to say, what’s your excuse?

Bradbury was not going to answer that unspoken question. He wasn’t ready to talk about jealousy or the need to drink away the increasingly filthy images that Trouble’s words had invoked. He wasn’t ready to throw away years of friendship and a steady income over some broad’s overactive imagination. Instead he asked, “Do I need to forward her letters from prison?”

Mitch scowled, the expression much too pretty for a man. “She was a sick woman fixated on the Great Machine, I’m not encouraging her.”

Encouraging her? What the hell did Mitch think letting her touch him was then? “Then why the hell did you kiss her?”

Now instead of pissed, Mitch just looked mortified. “Oh god,” he muttered. He sank down even lower in his chair. “Please tell me the press hasn’t found out about that.” 

“It was all the bitch could talk about,” Bradbury said, taking spiteful pleasure in Mitch’s misery. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was all over The Voice tomorrow.”

Mitch moaned. “Great, just what I need.” 

Bradbury went in for the kill. “Your ex-girlfriend getting pissed over your new girlfriend?” 

“What the fuck?” Mitch stared at his friend. “Why are you so obsessed with this?”

Bradbury blinked in surprise. Shit, had Mitch really noticed? “Obsessed—“

“Suzanne and I didn’t even date. During the blackout, you thought I was fucking my mother,” Mitch’s hand was flailing around, sloppy and uncontrolled. “I swear to god, you’re nosier than the damn tabloids.”

“It’s my job to uh—“ Bradbury’s mind blanked out for a second, the beer catching up to him. Christ, he needed an excuse and he needed it now. “To access all dangers to the Mayor and city of New York.”

If Mitch’s stare was anything to go by, his bullshit tolerance was running low. “What the hell does who I’m dating have to do with it?”

Bradbury stood up, knees feeling weak and unstable. The conversation was getting out of his control. There was no way he was admitting to anything. It took a moment, but he found a decent answer: “That reporter from The Voice keeps asking questions—“

That Mitch immediately shot down. “That’s what reporters do, they ask questions.”

Feeling defensive, Bradbury found himself standing right in front of Mitch’s chair, towering over the man. Bradbury was a large guy, damn intimidating when he wasn’t clutching a pair of armrests for stability. “It’s my job to keep you safe.”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “From STIs?”

Bradbury leaned forward, crowding Mitch against the chair back. “From anyone who’d want to hurt you.”

An uneasy silence rolled over them. They were much too close for comfort and with every breath Bradbury caught the scent of weed, metal and sweat. Mitch really was just too goddamn pretty for a man.

Bradbury found himself staring at Mitch’s mouth; plush and full, it seemed to be begging for a tongue or a cock to fill it. “She said it was like making out with a third rail. What did she mean?”

Mitch smirked, his lips quirking in a way that was kin to flirting. “Go to the subway and find out.”

There was just enough alcohol swimming in Bradbury’s system to make bad decisions seem like great ideas. “You’re a hell of a lot closer.” He pressed forward, silencing any protest.

Even with his beer-dulled tongue, the flavors that made Mitchell Hundred exploded across Bradbury’s senses. Past the weed was metal and electricity, a faint hum of power that made his balls ache with longing. Mitch felt alien and strange but underneath it all was something warm and all too human. 

Trouble was wrong, kissing Mitch wasn’t like kissing a third rail; kissing Mitch was like kissing New York herself. 

Bradbury crawled onto the chair, his leg nudging against Mitch’s groin. Despite the pot, Mitch was half-hard and whimpering against Bradbury’s messy kisses. Feeling bold, Bradbury’s hands made their way to Mitch’s ass, squeezing with intent. His lips moved from that incredible mouth to the pale line of throat, nipping and sucking. Bradbury was too buzzed to feel that he could really get it up, but he had fingers and a tongue. He could make it feel good, could make Mitch feel good. He didn’t realize he had said it out loud until Mitch stiffened in his embrace. 

Mitch wiggled his good arm in between their bodies and shoved Bradbury away. His eyes were dazed, lips plump and bruised.

“Get off me,” Mitch said.

Bradbury’s answer was articulate as always, “What?”

Mitch pushed harder, forcing Bradbury to stand up or fall on his ass. “Not doing this in a chair when you’re drunk,” Mitch said, pushing himself upright. 

Bradbury frowned at the accusation. “Not drunk.”

Mitch gave his “I am the mayor of the most densely populated city in the world” glare. “Totally drunk.” 

Shit, Mitch was pissed at him. Bradbury’s mouth went dry and he felt very small. The pleasant buzz that had run through his system turned to acid in his stomach. “Oh.” He didn’t have much in his life: just Mitch, a job and two little girls he only saw every once in a blue moon. This was a mistake; he had ruined everything. Maybe if he ran now he could at least salvage a little dignity.

Bradbury turned his head away, running a hand through his cropped hair. “I’ll just go.”

“Hey.” Bradbury felt a hand encircle his wrist, warm and alive. He looked back at Mitch, unwilling to hope just yet.

Mitch was smiling at him, thumb rubbing against Bradbury’s racing pulse. Exhaustion marred Mitch’s face, the mayor’s shoulders slumping and his eyelids drooping. “Just sleep it off, okay?” Mitch said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Bradbury felt like he could breath again. “Morning?”

Mitch let go and pushed himself to his feet. “This place is huge, go find an empty bed somewhere.” 

Now Bradbury was really confused. “I can stay?”

“You’re drunk,” Mitch reminded him for the millionth time, “and I’ve got a shit-load of meetings tomorrow.” He stretched his arms above his head, yawning with the effort. Mitch squeezed Bradbury’s shoulder as he passed on by, his voice low, ”We’ll see if you still want to fuck me in the morning.” 

Bradbury sighed in relief, his eyes following Mitch as he made his way through the dark halls of Gracie mansion. Mitch had said he could stay; Mitch had said they could talk in the morning; hell, he had said they could do more than “talk” in the morning. Bradbury couldn’t help the dopey grin that crossed his face. He was the luckiest bastard in the whole world. 

Trouble could have her one stupid kiss, ‘cause Bradbury was getting it all.


End file.
